“What lorry?”
“Have a guess.”
“I don’t know nothing about no lorry.”
“Going blind? It was parked slap in the middle of the road just past the bend.”
“You can’t prove nothing.”
Fusil smiled, in a pitying kind of way. Stretley fingered the dressing on his cheek.
“I don’t want to make things too difficult for you,” said Fusil, “so I’ll just tell you that we found a strand of material caught up on the cab seat of the lorry and we’ve matched it against the material in the overalls Hobbs was wearing.”
“You couldn’t’ve done,” said Stretley, but he did not manage to sound confident.
“Another thing, there was a patch of damp soil by the side of the cab and this recorded a shoe pattern. Your shoe pattern.”
Instinctively, Stretley looked down at his shoe. He jerked his gaze away. “It weren’t my shoe.”
“Didn’t the sergeant at the hospital tell you that we borrowed your shoe for a time?”
“You’re trying to fix me,” shouted Stretley.
“No need. You’ve fixed yourself.” Fusil sat back. “How much were you to be paid for the job this time — same as before?”
“I ain’t done no job.”
Fusil picked up a pencil and began to doodle on the sheet of paper in front of himself. He shaded in a circle, then looked up. “With the kind of form you’ve got, I suppose the courts will give you three or four years for nicking the lorry.”
“I didn’t nick nothing.”
“For assaulting my D.C., they’ll add on another three or four years.”
“Assault ’im. We didn’t do no assaulting. We come round the corner and ’e’s punching-up Ginger. All we did was to try to ’elp Ginger.”
“And for assaulting his fiancée, they’ll add on anything up to another seven or eight. Even in today’s permissive society, judges don’t like women being assaulted.”
“We didn’t assault ’er,” shouted Stretley, his voice filled with bitter anger. “She came at us with that bottle. We didn’t know nothing ’til then.”
“How very unfair.”
“It’s all right for you to laugh.” Stretley again fingered the dressing on his cheek.
“I’m not laughing,” said Fusil, and grinned.
“I’m telling you, we didn’t know nothing about ’er ’til she went for us.”
“That’s not the evidence my D.C. will give in court.”
“But if she’d stayed in the car, we wouldn’t ’ave touched ’er.”
“How unlucky for you she didn’t do just that. I told you at the beginning, you jumped out of your class.”
“You bleeding well know ’ow it was: you know we didn’t go for ’er.”
Fusil was silent.
“I wants a smoke,” said Stretley suddenly.
Fusil shrugged his shoulders. “I never use cigarettes.”
“Get us some.”
Fusil made no answer.
“Look, Mister, what’s it you want?”
“Facts.”
“I’ve told the facts. We didn’t assault ’er.”
“You’ll never be believed.”
“It’s the truth.”
“That adds to the irony, but not to your chances.”
Stretley chewed at his lower lip. “What d’you want?” he demanded for the second time.
“I’ve just told you: facts.”
“Suppose… Suppose I talks?”
“If you’re really helpful, I might be able to persuade my D.C. and his fiancée not to press their allegations of assault.”
“You’re trying to put the black on me.”
“Never,” said Fusil.
Stretley searched his pockets for a cigarette, even though he knew he had none. He fiddled with the middle button of his coat, twisting it first one way, then the other.
“D’you feel like telling me about this job and all the others?” asked Fusil. “Or would you rather go down for a ten-year stretch?”
Stretley said: “I need a smoke.”
Fusil called in the uniformed constable who had relieved the sergeant outside. “Have you got a fag, lad?”
“Yes, sir.” The P.C. took a pack from his pocket. He handed it over.
“Thanks.” Fusil extracted a cigarette and rolled it across the table. He handed the pack back to the P.C. and said: “You’d better stay in here and take some notes.” The P.C. walked over to a chair against the far wall and sat down. Stretley lit the cigarette which he had picked up and drew the smoke deep into his lungs.
“Shall we begin at the beginning?” said Fusil calmly, but with a snap to his voice which could not be missed.
“I got phoned up,” said Stretley. He stopped.
“Well?”
“A bloke offered me a grand for doing a job.”
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ll have to do better than that.”
“I tell you, I don’t know. ’E just phoned.”
“You’ll have asked questions?”
“I didn’t get no answers.”
“You wouldn’t have done the job in those circumstances.”
“I didn’t ’ave no choice. I was skint and owed money to the boys and they was wanting payment. I needed a share of that grand. The bloke said I could do the job ’ow I liked. All ’e’d do was tell me when the lorry would be along.”
“Did you do the earlier hijackings?”
Stretley drew on the cigarette. He stared at the door, then quickly at Fusil, then down at the table “Yes,” he muttered.
“O.K. Let’s talk about July. What happened to Finnigan?”
“Ed was a stupid bastard.” Stretley spoke bitterly. “Wasn’t content with ’is fair cut. Said we ought to find out ’oo was collecting the lorry and put on the black. I tried to argue ’im out of it, but ’e wouldn’t listen. ’E stayed with the lorry. I don’t know nothing more.”
“Who killed him?”
“I don’t know.”
“The centre-man must have got on to you after the job?”
“’E got on the phone and wanted to know why Ed stayed behind. I said Ed was a stupid bastard.”
“Did he say what had happened to Finnigan?”
“No.”
“Did you ask him?”
“No.”
“Was this after you’d been questioned by us?”
Stretley nodded.
“Where does the centre-man phone you from?”
“I don’t know.”
“A callbox?”
“I tell you, I don’t know.”
“Does the call come through an operator?”
“No.”
“What’s his voice like?”
“Ordinary.”
“You’re not telling me much,” said Fusil.
“I’m telling you all I know,” muttered Stretley.
Was he, wondered Fusil, making a full confession, or was he holding back some vital piece of information? Fusil unwillingly came to the first conclusion. Stretley’s one aim and object now was to save his own skin.
*
Fusil telephoned Kywood’s house immediately after lunch.
“That was a neat bit of work on the part of your D.C.,” said Kywood.
“Yes, sir, it was.” What would Kywood say, wondered Fusil, if he knew Kerr had only caught the three villains because he’d deserted his job? Kywood’s mind would work itself into knots trying to find the proper and prescribed way in which to view such events.
“Well, what have you learned from the interview? Cleared the whole thing up, eh?”
Fusil gave the other a carefully edited version of the morning’s interview of Stretley.
“Oh!” said Kywood. “Not so good, is it? You haven’t made the progress you told us we would.”
“I only said I hoped.”
“Comes to the same thing, doesn’t it, from a practical point of view? I
assured the chief constable that everything was wrapped up.”
“Tell him the paper burst.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Look, Bob, this is real important. You’ve got to start getting somewhere.”
“It’s not all loss, sir. We’ve had positive confirmation now that the centre-man’s local.”
“You can’t say that when Stretley makes out he doesn’t know who he is.”
“Stretley has confirmed he was paid a thousand pounds each time to organise the hijackings.”
“Well?”
“I pointed out before, the centre-man could only afford a thousand if the whisky is sold locally.” Fusil tried to speak patiently. “There’s another fact. Finnigan tried to put the black on the centre-man last time, yet Stretley was still used for this job. Why? A London centre-man would move to a new mob at once. Either our centre-man doesn’t know any other mobs, or he can’t open up any channels of communication with another one and still stay out of sight, or he’s a special reason for carrying on with Stretley.”
“What could that be?”
“To prove to himself that he’s so goddamn clever he can risk using Stretley again and get away with it.”
“I don’t understand,” protested Kywood.
You might, thought Fusil, given enough time.
Kywood said he hoped Fusil would soon sort things out to the satisfaction of the chief constable and rang off.
Fusil paced his office. He’d spoken confidently enough, but was he justified? He’d said that events again proved the centre-man was local, which in turn meant the whisky was being sold locally. But only two firms could shift large amounts of stolen whisky and they’d both been investigated and cleared. He’d said the centre-man was trying to prove to himself how very clever he was, but was that the only explanation of why Stretley was used again to carry out the hijackings?
Chapter 13
Josephine had roasted a leg of lamb for supper, which they ate half an hour after Helen and Kerr had left. Fusil had two helpings of that, together with roast potatoes and peas, and then went on to have two helpings of the sherry trifle that followed.
As he finished, she smiled fondly at him. “You’ve had a really good meal, Bob.”
“I was pretty hungry, I don’t mind admitting. I forgot to have any tea.”
“How on earth could you do that? I thought the internal alarm clock in your tummy never let you down.”
He yawned. “I’ve spent all day tied up with the Stretley mob.”
She lit a cigarette. “Ever since they’ve left, I’ve been thinking of Helen and what could have happened to her. It makes me go all cold inside.”
He nodded. “I know. And yet even now she doesn’t seem to realise just how lucky she was — which is as well from her point of view, I suppose.”
“She’s going to make a wonderful wife. Young John Kerr couldn’t have chosen anyone nicer.”
“I rather think she chose him and he had the good sense to go along with her choice.”
“Stop being cynical.”
“I’m not. He was always chasing fresh pastures until he suddenly learned life could be brutal. When that happened, she was waiting to pick up the pieces.” He yawned again, then stood up. “I’m going into the study for a spell.”
“Must you?” She looked up at him, frowning slightly. “Why can’t you take the rest of the evening off? After all, it is Sunday.”
“Josey, I’ll swear black and blue that Stretley’s evidence confirms the centre-man is local and the whisky is being sold locally, right under my nose. It’s ten to one the centre-man is Sharman, simply because of the outlets for the stolen whisky that he controls. But his accounts and stocks were checked and I was told he couldn’t possibly be handling the whisky. So?” He shrugged his shoulders. “So what’s the answer to the riddle? I’ve got to find it.”
She went to speak, but checked herself. She knew he had been telling the truth: he had to find the answer to the riddle, no matter how many times in the past he had tried and failed, not simply because that was what police work was all about, but because he must prove to himself he was right. Sometimes, she wished that he didn’t need always to prove himself — surely this overwhelming need suggested some sort of weakness of character? — but he would never change. In any case, if he were different in character, could he be the same man she loved so deeply and passionately?
Fusil left the kitchen and went through the hall to his study. It was tiny, designated by the architect a box room, and although the desk was very small it left little space for anything else. He squeezed past the desk and sat down in the cane chair. He lit his pipe and began to fill the place with acrid smoke.
On the desk, spread out in a rough semi-circle, were papers dealing with the Finnigan murder, the July hijacking of the lorry, the subsequent enquiries, and all the photostat copies of accounts and stocks which Melchett had left him. However many times had he waded through this lot, trying to find something he had missed which would lead him to the truth?
He leaned back in the chair. This case, just as any other, rested on personalities because crime was committed by persons. On the face of things, Sharman had to be in the clear — no trace of the stolen whisky had been found, either in the shops or the warehouse or as unexplained figures in his accounts. But Sharman had been jeering at him when he visited the warehouse, just as he had been jeering at Kerr on Kerr’s first visit there. Why? Was it the contempt of a self-made man for someone who hadn’t reached success in life — when success was measured by money? Was it the amused contempt of the innocent man who watched the floundering attempts of the bucolic police who hadn’t enough sense even to know when a man just had to be innocent? Was it the superior contempt of a very clever man watching the floundering efforts of the bucolic police, knowing they could suspect all they liked but they’d never find out? Wasn’t the man who again employed Stretley for this last hijacking either a fool or someone who was quite certain of his superior cleverness and determined to prove it?
Fusil fingered the thick pile of photostat pages. The figures failed to show any discrepancies in money or stocks. Ten thousand pounds’ worth of whisky had been stolen from the Jack of Hearts, roughly as much again on each of the previous hijackings, yet the accounts at no time showed ten thousand pounds unaccounted for and the stocks held no extra three thousand five hundred-odd bottles of whisky. He suddenly slammed his fist down on the desk. There were no discrepancies, yet for him to be right there had to be.
He leafed through the pages. Figures, figures, figures: enough to give him mental constipation for months. He came to the bank statements. Some of the cheques were for thousands of pounds: he’d never signed a cheque for a thousand in his life. At times, in one of the accounts, there was an overdraft of five figures: he’d once inadvertently overdrawn his account by twenty-five pounds and the bank manager had raised all hell. Only the rich could afford to borrow. There was an entry in pencil on the page he was looking at. Puzzled by it for a moment, he remembered Melchett telling him that one or two small cheques had not been paid in — something quite in the normal course of events. How blasé could you get, wondered Fusil? He’d certainly never not paid in a cheque someone had given him!
He leafed through the rest of the statements, knowing from bitter experience they would tell him nothing — yet he had to do something to suggest to himself that he was taking meaningful action. There were more cheques for thousands of pounds. How did the ordinary person afford to drink all the liquor that this money represented? There were more large overdrafts. People said it was easier to get an overdraft for ten thousand than a hundred. More small cheques drawn but not paid in.
He turned over the last of the bank statements and came to the stock reconciliation sheets which Melchett had said showed there were not now, and never had been, any unexplained quantity of bottles in stock. How did anyone make sense of these endless columns of figures?
After the reconciliation sheets, there were all the cheque stubs and after them… He slumped back in the chair. God, he was tired! So tired, that he was having trouble in focussing his eyes and his eyelids kept drooping down.
He stood up, turned, and opened the window. The air was cold and damp, but it did wake him slightly. He looked at his watch: a quarter to ten. If he had any sense, he’d say to hell with everything and go up to bed. Melchett had said there was no fiddle, so what could be the point in staring at figures which he didn’t understand? Yet there was one fact he could not forget — Sharman had been jeering at him and wasn’t the continued employment of Stretley an extension of this satisfied contempt?
He shut the window, returned to the desk, sat down, and stubbornly stared at the pile of papers. His eyelids became heavier than ever. A pain began behind his eyes.
Josephine entered the room. “Bob, it’s time you went up to bed.”
Perversely, he said: “I can’t yet.”
“You look three parts asleep.”
“Get me a cup of black coffee, love, and skip the lecture.”
She reached across the desk and fondled his right cheek. “Sometimes, I’d like to kick you where it really hurts — just to knock some sense into you.” She went out.
His eyes closed. How many of his fellow D.I.s would still be struggling with the case? Wouldn’t they have had the sense to accept the fact that once Sharman and Findren had been cleared the only possibility left was that the stolen whisky had to have been sold in London? Wouldn’t they have called Finnigan’s death a death by misadventure in furtherance of a theft and have removed it from the crime list? Wouldn’t they have side-stepped trouble… He fell asleep for a few seconds.
He jerked awake. The truth must be somewhere. All detectives were taught that: “Every crime leaves traces, but these are not always directly recognisable so that every inconsistency and every discrepancy must be minutely examined, however remote or insignificant it may seem.” Hadn’t he investigated every discrepancy and inconsistency and discovered nothing? He fell asleep again.
He woke up, mentally convinced he had been asleep for hours. A quick look at his watch showed him he was wrong. He began to collect up all the papers, hoping physical movement would keep sleep away. He noticed on one of the bank statements the pencilled-in amount of thirty-five shillings for one of the cheques which had not been paid in. Here was one of the discrepancies in the case. Cheque number 247562 for thirty-five shillings. When you were searching for an extra ten thousand pounds, you had to be pretty far gone to think that the discrepancy of thirty-five shillings could be of the slightest significance.
Guilt Without Proof (C.I.D. Room Book 4) Page 12
